Pardon From An Angel
by lordmasterkris
Summary: The original cowritten story rewritten by me alone. A driver for the Leone Mafia moves to Liberty. After his family is killed in a fire, he goes on a hatefueled quest for revenge and learns just how Liberty got its title as the worst city in America.
1. A New Life

**A/N: This was originally a co-written story between ryando and I, but due to circumstances, it's mine now. I'd like to. . ._reluctantly_. . .thank ryando for the original idea, and for letting me keep the title after many hours of debate.**

**Anyone who read the original first three chapters, please read them again, I plan to change the story slightly.**

**Chapter One: A New Life**

"Dad! Are we there yet?" yelled Amy from the back seat of our royal blue sedan.

"Almost." I laughed, sharing a smile with my wife Christy. She had beautiful, porcelain skin and silky black hair. When she smiled, there was nothing the world could do but smile back.

She didn't mind my job. And I was glad. With the money I was making, I could buy whatever my family wanted. My employer even bought us a new house in Liberty City.

I was a driver for the Mob, the Leone Mafia. I had been for a few years, ever since one of my taxi fares, a young Luigi Goterelli, commended my skills to the Don himself. And when the Don moved to Liberty in 2000, he paid to bring my family and I with him.

I looked out of the window as I drove around the streets. Portland didn't look like the kind of place I wanted my daughter to grow up in, but Mr Leone assured me that this would be my last job. I could retire. I laughed when he said that – retire at twenty-five? Then again, the Mob's retirement plan isn't easily turned down. He said I could buy a house in Shoreside, the rich neighbourhood, with the money I would be rewarded.

We pulled into the driveway in front of the house. It was less magnificent than we had hoped. But it was only temporary. I climbed out of the car, and helped Amy out of the back, then I picked up our bags and carried them to the doorstep. The warm July sun beat down on us, reflecting off the car and windows. I creaked open the door and led the way in.

The interior was. . .liveable, at best. I wouldn't have wanted to stay more than a few weeks. I think that's how Christy felt too, until I reminded her – only temporary.

Mr Leone had given me most of the day to settle, told me to come see him at his mansion at around six.

I let myself fall back into an armchair and relax, and Christy went to the kitchen.

"Daddy, where's my doll?"

"Oh, it's in the van, precious. One of Mr Leone's friends is bringing it over tomorrow."

"But I want my doll!" she cried.

Just then Christy came running through, with a little plastic doll in a pink dress, and made everything better. Wow, she always thought of everything.

At six, I gave Christy a kiss on the cheek, gave Amy a hug and departed to Saint Mark's. The street was rife with homeless people, gang members carrying knives and baseball bats, women wearing virtually no clothes at all.

Only temporary.

The Saint Mark's area was overrun with sharp suited "businessmen", flashy black Sentinels cruised along the streets. I found it quite intimidating.

Thanks to the instructions and map left in the house, I found the Don's house, and slowly drove up the dirt path to the parking area. I told the man at the door who I was and he simply nodded and led me inside, into the luxurious lounge area where Salvatore sat with some men.

"Ah, nice to see you again, kid." Salvatore left his seat to pat me on the back. "Please, please sit down." He turned to his company, "This is the guy I've been telling you about, the one Luigi found. Kid, this is Toni,"

"How d'you do." said Toni, with a hand shake.

"This is my son Joey."

"Pleasure ta meet ya."

"And this is Mickey Hamfists, Luigi's doorman and a bit of extra muscle around here."

Mickey, who had let me in, nodded to me.

"Anyway, kid," said Salvatore, "I want you to take these guys to the old school hall for a wedding. Get the job done, and you get your payment, and won't be tied to the Mob any more."

"You got it, sir."

"Well?" said Toni, "Let's go already!"

"Joey, you stay here." commanded Salvatore.

We went out the front door and down the steps. I started to walk to my car.

"What you goin' to that pile of crap for?" grinned Toni. "Here." he threw me his keys.

I climbed into the front seat of his orange Kuruma, he and Mickey got in the back.

"We gotta go pick up Luigi. I'll give ya directions to his club."

Following Toni's directions we passed through Chinatown with some hateful expressions from the Triads and pulled up outside the neon lighting of Sex Club Seven.

Mickey stepped out of the car and walked round to the back entrance, returning with Luigi following behind. This time Mickey sat in the passenger seat and Luigi sat in the back with Toni, and they told me how to get to the hall.

I slowed down to manoeuvre the car around the plants in front of the school hall, and parked at the entrance.

Luigi said to keep the engine running. I didn't understand why I had to wait if they were going to a wedding, but for the amount of money I had been promised I was willing to do pretty much anything. There was a lot of shouting inside, and what sounded like gunshots, and things started to make more sense. I saw Toni leave first, yelling something like, "Take that ya Forelli Bastards!", then literally dive into the car, Mickey and Luigi following soon after.

"Get us the hell outta here, kid!" yelled Toni, his voice almost inaudible over the screeching of tyres all round us. The smell of burning rubber filled the air, the car literally leapt over the plants and kerbs and we sped off down the street.

"Wow, wait til I tell my wife about this!" I laughed.

The passengers exchanged looks quickly, and resumed staring out the windows, the chasing cars disappearing in the distance.

"I know somewhere we can go." said Luigi. "take us to 8-ball's yard, we can lay low there for a while."

"You got it, sir."

It was a straight road, through prime Mafia territory. Toni motioned for me to pull over, beside a navy blue suited man. Toni whispered to him, and he replied with a nod, before running off, talking into his cell phone. He stood in the middle of the street, directing Mafia traffic East in the direction of the school hall.

Toni was smiling.

"Alright, kid, 8-ball's is just up ahead, behind the auto dealers. Just take the road here, that's it."

I steered the car around the track, to 8-ball's trailor, and, as always, remained in the car until oredered to leave. Toni led the way to the door, and knocked loudly and repeatedly on the glass. A minute later, 8-ball appeared in a white long sleeved shirt and blue jeans.

"What's up, guys?" he said.

"8-ball, you got a minute?"

"Well, uh, I'm kinda busy right now." At this, a young woman appeared, leaning over 8-ball's shoulder. She smiled at Luigi, who nodded approvingly.

"We just gotta lay low for a while."

"Trouble with the Sindaccos again?"

"Forellis actually. Anyway, can you spray the car? Then we'll be outta your hair."

"Sure, I guess. Since it's you guys. I'll be back in a minute, babe." He eased the door shut. "Ya got keys?"

"Right here." I said, tossing him the keys.

He got into the car and reversed it into his garage, and closed the door behind him.

"I gotta go have a word with the Don." said Toni after a minute's silence. "I'll walk."

"Ya sure that's safe?" asked Luigi.

"Sure, I know a shortcut. Y'know, up the hill – none of the Forellis set foot up there."

"What about your car?"

"Kid, you make sure that car gets back to me at the Don's place, alright?"

"You bet, Mr Cipriani."

Twenty minutes later, the garage door reopened, revealing Toni's Kuruma in a new bottle green shade.

"Nice work, 8-ball." grinned Luigi. "Here's a little somethin' for your trouble." He placed some notes in 8-ball's shirt pocket, then climbed into the back seat of the car with Mickey.

I started the engine. "Where to?"

"Uh, take me back to my club, will ya? Mickey'll come to, right?"

Mickey nodded obediently.

"Sure thing." Obedience and good manners paid if you were tied to the Mob.

I drove out of the yard and along the street.

"Oh, y'know what, kid? Take us South from here. We wanna avoid the ruckus up ahead."

I obeyed, and drove through Hepburn Heights, and parked at Luigi's club to let Mickey and Luigi out.

"Ya did good, kid. Salvatore oughtta give a nice tip. See ya around."

I gave a subtle wave and sped through Hepburn Heights, past the car crusher, and up to Salvatore's mansion. I left Toni's car parked in the driveway. When I went inside, Salvatore, his son and Toni were standing together, talking in a low, almost inaudible murmur. I tried to listen.

"Yeah, dad, Chunky Lee Chong's history."

"You did that?"

"Nah dad, some guy did it for me, 8-ball's friend. Y'know the silent guy."

"I wanna meet him."

"So, Mr Leone," interrupted Toni, "what do we do about that other problem?"

"You know what to do about it. Both of you, go."

"Right, boss."

"Right, dad."

"Ah, my good friend!" exclaimed Salvatore when he noticed my presence. "What will I do without you, eh? You've been invaluable to me since I met you. I'm sorry to see you go."

"Yeah, me too, but-"

"And this, my friend, this is for you." He opened a briefcase of cash and showed me the money inside. "Half a million."

"Wow, that's so generous of you, I-" He placed the case down and embraced me with a hug and kissed my forehead.

"Well, it's been a pleasure, sir, but I have to be leaving."

"Nonsense!" cried Salvatore, nervously. "Stay a while! Here, have a drink." He handed me a glass and showed me to a chair. "So tell me, how are your family?"

"Great. My little girl's so smart, and-"

"Wonderful, wonderful. And. . ." We talked for quite some time, a number of people passed through the room, only Joey and Toni I recognised. Eventually, I left apologetically and dug my car keys out of my pocket, and began the drive home. I enjoyed driving. After all, it was my job. A well paying job, at that too, I thought, looking at the case on the passenger seat. I didn't have a care in the world. As far as I knew, nothing could bring me down.

The wailing sirens and rising smoke coming from my street should have been a clue.

I raced down the street, the whole time praying it wouldn't be my house, my family, my life. . .

The car screeched to a halt behind the fire engines and I saw the horrific sight in full. Smoke billowed from the windows, fire blazed from the kicked down door. I could hear the screams from inside, I snapped. I threw my coat over my head and made for the door. Firemen tried to pull me back but my intense willpower pushed me onwards. Rubble crumbled above my head, the fire spat at me and hissed like an animal.

I found her in the kitchen, her leg was trapped under a piece of the fallen ceiling.

She was already dead.

I still heard screaming. Amy! She must have been put to bed already. I scrambled up the stairs, skipping two or three at a time. I held my hand over my mouth to stop myself from choking on the fumes and flung open the first door I found. I saw Amy sitting there, tears in her eyes, hoarse from screaming.

The roof started to crack, I shielded myself as a support beam detached and fell about the door, bringing the rest of the wall with it. Amy was still on the other side. I could hear her screaming "Dad! Dad! Help!" but there was nothing I could do.

I ran back outside to get a fireman, and saw the house cave in behind me. The roof fell, the bricks shattered and fell inwards. All that was left was rubble.

I sat at the kerb, my head in my hands. Some people came over to check on me but I lashed out at them to leave me alone. The last thing I remember seeing was them putting my daughter into a body bag, and leaving the scene.

The sound of my cell phone ringing jerked me back into reality. I checked my watch. About an hour had passed since the scene. I remember them saying the time of death, ten forty-five pm.

I answered the phone, my shaking hand struggling to keep it at my ear. I managed to force a "hello?"

"Hello there." came the voice, a gruff, muffled male. "You used to work for Salvatore Leone? Am I correct?"

"Yes, but this isn't really-"

"It was unfortunate what happened to your family, but I have some information for you."

"Really?"

"Yes. I know who killed your family."


	2. Vengeance

"I know who killed you family." His tone was steady and slightly intimidating.

"Who?" I asked, desperation and insistence dripping from the words.

"Your answer lies with Joey Leone. I'm afraid I can reveal no more."

"And what makes you think I should trust you?"

"Really, what choice do you have? Who do you have left? What do you have to lose? Just remember – information like this comes with a price. You haven't heard the last from me. Good day."

"Wait, I-"

The voice was gone. The dialling tone droned on like a dead man's heart monitor. I returned the phone to my pocket and sat. There really wasn't much else to do. My car sat on the edge of the street. The keys were in my hand. Was it really worth getting answers from Joey? Could he really be responsible? Would revenge really make everything better?

Yes.

Yes it would.

At least for me it would.

Sweet revenge. Making someone else pay. It was a satisfying thought. I raised myself off the cold concrete pavement. It was raining quite heavily, the droplets shimmering against my car. I fumbled in the dark (the time was approaching twelve thirty), and inserted the key into the slot. The door eased open. I looked to my right, where my wife once sat. On the seat was a black briefcase. The money that would buy my fantastic new life in Shoreside. The money that would give me and my family our well deserved happiness. It didn't seem to matter now. I would put the money to other uses.

The streets of Liberty are dangerous at night. As I drove through the pouring rain and gathering mist, dim street lights and the neon lights of seedy bars and clubs my only visual aid, I watched the hookers, the gangs, the drunk and power abusing police officers, the suspicious people with their identities concealed behind oversized trench coats, I wondered how I ended up alone in such a place.

Joey would be "working" at his garage near the docks. Salvatore's convenient little map had all their "hang-outs" listed, and from what I had learned of their family over the years, it takes a real emergency to part a Leone from his work.

The lengthy drive to the shop filled me with adrenaline, a raw rage powerful enough to suppress all logic about what I was going to do. I flung open the door of the dull orange building and looked around. On a table by the door was a power drill. I seized it in my grasp and began to advance. Roughly in the middle of the floor, a blue Bf Injection stood suspended on a jack. Sitting on a table nearby was a woman I felt like I had seen many times. Because she resembled all the other whores in Portland.

I leaned my right hand on top of the car, and coughed loudly. The sound of wheels rolling came from under the buggy, and Joey's head and shoulders slid out.

"Ya wanna take yer hand off the paint job, kid, I just finished it."muttered Joey.

With a swift kick, I knocked the jack from under the car and watched it fall on Joey's body with a crushing blow. He let out a gasp. I grinned as the whir of the drill powered up, covering the girl's screaming as she bolted out the door. I kept my attention fixed on Joey.

"No no, please, please, don't kill me!" he croaked, breathlessly, the weight of the car obviously hindering his circulation.

"Why not? You killed my family!"

"No, no, it wasn't me! It was my old man, I swear!" Tears were forming in his eyes.

"Oh, yeah." I turned the drill off, "why?"

"Omerta. Ya know, the rule of shut the hell up. Pops found out what you been telling your wife about his business, so he had em killed."

"So what if I tell your old man you told me all that? What's the punishment for a family member who breaks the Omerta?"

"God, no, please, no! I didn't do nothin'! He'll kill me!"

"Alright, Joey, thanks for your help. I'll see you around."

I dropped the drill to the ground with a clang and left via the door. I could barely hear Joey screaming for me to lift the car off of him.

Just barely.

Admittedly, I felt better after dealing with Joey. The death of my beloved family had left a void in me, and that void was quickly being filled with hatred and vengeance and a desire to witness the bloodshed of the wrongdoer. Salvatore Leone.

I thought back to the other day. The Don had been so hospitable, generous, even friendly. He must have already arranged it to be done. He would pay for his deceit. I returned to my car, and drove off to Portland's shopping centre. Hundreds of store fronts, signs beaming uninviting advertisements for food, prescription drugs, electrical goods, and the one thing that makes Liberty what it is.

Cheap guns.

Cheap guns on sale. In Ammu-Nation.

I slowed near the store, the right side of the car mounting the pavement. I craned my neck out of the window at the weapons in the front window display case. Comical speech bubbles held the prices, as well as information on ninety day money back guarantees and free grenades with every purchase. I tapped my suitcase companion happily on the lid, unclipped the buckles, and lifted a couple thousand dollars. I presumed this wouldn't surprise the clerk, they probably didn't accept credit cards anyway.

A bell sounded cheerfully as I pushed open the door. The clerk nodded solemnly from behind thick sheets of bullet-proof glass, and left me to browse the stock. I found a basic 9mm pistol in the "bargain bin" for eighty bucks. I kept digging, cutting myself on an unpackaged knife or two – no chance of a lawsuit though, it looked like the clerk's lawyer was kept in the compartment next to the cash register, with plenty of ammo too. . .

I looked further across the shelves. Hanging above them were military type posters. "Your Country Needs You", "Voice Your Opinion In Bullets", "Help Us Kick Australia's Ass", and so on. Targets hung on the back wall. In the middle of them was a life-size plastic figure clad in a blue Hawaiian shirt, his arms cradled around an M4 Colt Commando. I gently prised the gun from his grip and aimed it experimentally at the front window, smiling wickedly.

"Replica model." came the monotone, droning voice of the clerk.

"I have cash." I replied steadily.

"Come with me." He beckoned with his hand and unlocked the door to his impenetrable cubicle. He searched me when I walked over, and discarded the pistol I had picked up earlier, then led me through a grey steel door covered in bright yellow warning signs.

Inside was like a miniature bomb shelter. Heavy powered guns hung from racks on the walls, and canned food was stacked expertly in the corners. He led me across the room, treading carefully over sleeping bags, tents, limbless dummies and various car parts to the back wall of the ten metre square room where Salvatore's potential murder weapon hung. I smiled excitedly and forked over most of the cash from my pockets. He accepted the money graciously, handed me some clips, and my free grenades, and followed me out of the secret room with a quick "pleasure doin' business with ya" to send me on my way.

I stood at the door, scanning the streets for police who could arrest me for carrying such a lethal weapon. I realised this was illogical with all the gangs and shootings occurring on the same street. I opened the door, the bell sounded again, the clerk shot it off the hook above the door (obviously fed up with the constant chiming) and I paced along the narrow pavement to my car, which a couple of homeless people were trying to unlock. They bolted when they saw me with the gun. I smirked and unlocked the door. I started the ignition, the street in front of my car was flooded in yellow-white light from the headlights, as I screamed off and round the corner.

To Sex Club Seven, where Salvatore went to relax every Saturday night, as it said on the stupendously helpful map in my car.

The street on which the Club was located was surprisingly dark at night, the only illumination being the fluorescent aqua coloured sign out the front of Luigi's club. Outside of the club was heavily guarded, dark suited gangsters, almost blending into the starless night, stood motionless all over the road. I drove through, deciding to leave my car round the corner.

I stepped out of my car there, the M4 concealed under a heavy coat, and my face obscured by the shadow of my hat. I ran to the corner and pressed myself against the wall. I stayed close in, sliding silently across the first building from the corner. I was virtually invisible in the darkness. At the corner of the first building was an alleyway, leading to Luigi's club's back entrance. I convinced myself that it would be easier to get in this way. I compressed my body to the wall as much as possible, the two doormen kept their gazes fixed forward, expecting trouble to take them head on.

It was as I was creeping down the alley that I heard the gunshot. I could only hope now that the bodyguards would not come round. I continued down the alleyway.

And that's when I saw it.

Dimly silhouetted by a solitary flickering streetlight was the body of Salvatore Leone, lying face down in a pool of his own blood.

My eye caught a figure moving on the adjacent rooftop. I ran out of the alley and watched a sports car disappear around the corner. I watched as more than a score of suits poured out of every entrance of the building. In my hands I held a gun. I also noticed that in each of their hands was a gun as well. I panicked and ran to my car. The only way I knew they were giving chase was the bullet marks denting into the ground all around me. Round the corner I was frantically fumbling with my keys as I ran, deciding instead to smash the window and open the door from the inside.

I got a grip of the keys, and inserted them with my blood soaked right hand into the ignition, the sound of the bullets deafening me as they flew into the side of my car, sending sparks and chips of blue paint everywhere.

I ran a red light on the way, but everyone in Liberty knows they're just for show anyway. I knew of a decent hotel I could stay in. It was fancy, it had that velvety, better-than-you're-actually-worth feel to it. It towered seven stories high, the steeple on top adding an extra ten or fifteen feet. A clock was embedded in the side, telling me the time was almost exactly two o'clock. A notice out front read that the valets were off duty, so I drove my car into the parking area next door, and parked it between an SUV and a small green sedan, before walking back to the hotel's revolving doors with nothing but my briefcase and the clothes I was wearing. Red velvet drapes hung from every window, golden furniture occupied every corner, drunk guys in suits staggered around the foyer. A blast of perfumed air hit me as I stepped in, and I was greeted not so enthusiastically by the overtired check-in worker.

"Welcome to Callahan View hotel how can I be of service to you?" she droned.

"I want a room."

"No shit. Anything in particular?"

"Can I get one with a nice view?"

"Sir, we're in Portland. You'll get a room overlooking the whore houses and crack dens like the other customers and like it. Enjoy your stay."

She literally tossed a key to me and pointed in the general direction of the elevator. I was on the third floor, in room twenty-seven, and apparently they had just finished cleaning the blood out of the shower. The key jammed in the lock, but the door relented with a shoulder thrust and swung open, colliding noisily with the wall behind it. I threw my brief case and jacket on the bed straight in front of me and gave myself the tour.

Living room contents; bed, chair, window onto fire escape.

I walked through the hole in the wall that passed for the bathroom door into the small square room that passed for the bathroom. Contents; sink, toilet, shower, complimentary shampoo glued into place.

To be honest I wasn't impressed with the room. I picked up my coat, placing the briefcase under the left pillow and went for a walk, back to where the drama started.

Flashbacks and memories haunted me. The screaming, the crying, the fire trucks wailing in vain. I closed my eyes and the flames roared upwards again, scorching into my mind, billowing higher and higher, spitting and hissing like some ghastly demon. And in the middle of it all, my little girl, trapped where I couldn't reach her, screaming, crying out for me, being dragged away in a body bag, leaving me with nothing. Nothing but an empty hole in my heart. And now the malevolent flames that destroyed my life turn into burning rage and thirst for blood and revenge once more. But the one at fault for all my problems was dead, but I still wanted to kill the next person I saw.

I opened my eyes.

The orange glow of the sun poked through the trees. It glistened on the ground, drying puddles of rain and tears and warning Liberty's night life to take cover before complete sun up.

I must have dozed off. . .

I stood up, stretched out my muscles and wiped the dirt off my jacket to go back to my room and. . .well. . . nothing really.

It seemed like it would be a typical day in Liberty. Rare birds whistling in trees, homeless people vomiting in trash cans, and maybe even the odd squirrel scurrying by.

The hotel's revolving door hung off its hinges. One of the panes was smashed. The cheery new receptionist smiled with forced pleasantness and asked what I requested.

"Room 27. Left the key here."

"One moment, Mr. . ."

"Just find the damn key."

She turned and busied herself in the pigeon holes behind her desk, but returned empty handed.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she giggled with mock enthusiasm, "but someone already took that key earlier. This is your signature, isn't it?"

" "Otto B. Kilt?" Well it's original. You didn't think anything was weird about that name?"

"No, sir. Why would I?"

"You know, I could explain it to you, but frankly I would like to end this conversation right now and preferably have one of us die."

"Have a nice day."

I took the stairs next to the elevator, which took me out right at my room door, which I noticed, was on the floor. It looked like it had been hacked with an axe or something. The room was a disaster, like a tornado had hit. The quilts were torn, the sink had been completely pulled from the wall, leaving a fountain of water spewing. The window had been kicked through, showering the fire escape with glass. I ran to my pillow for the briefcase and opened it up. Inside was a letter;

"You're freakin' dead, kid! We're gonna kill you just like you killed Sal and Joey!"

It was signed by Toni Cipriani.

I felt a surge of panic. I kept still, not even breathing. I looked out of the window, across the street. Someone was there, leaning out of the window.

"Oh, shit!" I flung myself into the bathroom as a bullet shattered the bedside lamp, tiny pieces of glass scattered on the floor, then another impacted the wall. I lowered myself to the ground and crawled, my face not even an inch from the fake fur carpet, and slid slowly out the door and to the stairs again.

I had to get away.

As far away as possible.

Staunton Island.

I threw myself down the two flights of stairs, running, knees bent, back almost horizontal, straight through the revolving door (breaking it off the hinges completely), leaving only my key behind.

A valet stopped me on the way out.

"Can I get your car, sir? Which one is it?"

"The blue one! Blue one, and for gods sakes hurry!"

The young, blonde boy was clearly afraid of me, because he ran to the car as fast as I had seen anyone run, aside from myself just moments ago.

What came next was a shock.

It started off as a faint rumble, then the flames showed and started to engulf the car, reaching about a metre or more into the air. I thought I could hear knocking, and scraping, like he was trying to open the door or call for help, but I could only stand there in horror. The driver door fell open, the valet tumbled out, clawing at the ground and pulling himself away, his face burnt black.

The flames reached the gas tank, and the car erupted into the air like a volcano, incinerating the valet as he screamed in mortal terror.

A fire truck came round the corner, tipping onto two wheels from the speed. They put the fire out quickly, and all that remained were one or two vaguely distinguishable car parts, and a corpse mutilated beyond imagination, flesh peeling and black, what was left of the face was contorted in an agonising scream.

I couldn't watch it any more. I jumped into the fire truck and sped away, sirens blaring, leaving the driver with nothing to do but stare.

As the sun reached the highest point in the sky, I was crossing Callahan bridge, into Staunton Island. All I had with me was five hundred dollars left over from the gun I bought the day before, my cell phone, and a stolen fire truck.

No sooner had I crossed the bridge that my cell phone rang.

"So, you're in Staunton now?" came the familiar voice, the anonymous tipster who called me before.

"Yeah, so?"

"Are you forgetting about what I said? I told you you hadn't heard the last of me. Remember that. . .invaluable piece of information I donated to you? I would like you to work for it."

"Now listen-"

"Ah, don't speak. Just meet me at the toilet block in Belleville Park in one hour, and keep your word."


	3. Open and Shut Case

The roads were far busier in the Commercial District of Staunton Island. Traffic jams queued cars back several blocks and the air was thick with pollution and impatient honking. From the lights at the end of the bridge the cars split up in one of two directions – half going right, to Bush Stadium for another "friendly" (a term used loosely by commentators due to the uncontrollable amount of violence conjured up during, after and sometimes before the matches even started) game between the Liberty City Cocks and Beavers, which would surely end in at least one death, especially if the SUV driving soccer moms got worked up like they do every week and start running over the other team's players. And the other half went left, to their boring nine to five jobs at Love Media, Liberty Tree newspaper, or the FBC bank. Needless to say, all the ambulances turned right.

Me, I was going straight on apparently, thanks to the Sat Nav in the truck, to Belleville Park, wasting no time in pleasing the anonymous, mysterious male with my number and a million eyes seemingly watching my every move.

The lights changed, a pathetic flash of green appeared as the red faded, and a score of cars surged for the lights, like they had the other twice this had happened, almost half the cars still not fast enough to get through. Sick of waiting, I turned on the sirens and laughed as the cars pulled out of the way on to the pavements. With a quick glance in the rear view mirror I saw the pile up of angry football fans in SUVs flipping each other off and revving their engines threateningly.

I made a right at the end of the road, parking my truck up the pavement with hoards of greenery adjacent. I got out carefully, easing myself down the steep drop from the door to the ground, and walked through an opening into the park. I followed the dirt road, idly kicking small stones around and staring through the thick sheet of branches at the sky. After some time of walking, the path led to a small staircase, two vile smelling doorways at the bottom. Hands in pockets I descended the steps, deciding to try the men's toilet first. It was clear which one was the Men's since the door was hanging off, giving clear view of the urinals inside. That, and the sign, covered in childish graffiti, of a stick man, with various depictions of green, blue and black marker genitalia that was stuck to the wall beside the opening.

I walked in cautiously, stopping every two or three steps to glance behind. I took a look under the cubical doors, and found nothing. Nothing human, anyway. I turned around to leave, and felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I swivelled round sharply and saw the most sorry excuse for a man I had ever seen, in a brown, torn suit with grey hair and slight wrinkles. He smiled.

"How ya doin', kid?" he sounded different than he had on the phone.

"Who the hell are you?" I managed. "And why the hell have you been stalking me?"

"Hey, kid, show some respect. I did you a real favour! It's all over the news how you killed that mob boss." his tone became insistent.

"I didn't kill him!"

"Suure ya didn't." he grinned.

"No, I didn't, I swear!"

"Whatever, kid, your secret's safe with me anyhow. _If_ you work for it."

"I don't wanna work for you."

"Think about it this way. I could kill you right now, or hand you over to the police and never think twice about it. Or, we could work together and become great friends and keep each other's secrets secret. What d'ya say?"

"Dammit." I muttered under my breath. "What do you want?"

"Name's Ray. Ray Machowski. I'm a cop. Nah, nah, don't worry, I aint exactly what you'd call a . . .good cop. I done a bunch of pretty bad shit on the force, ya know. . . skimming drugs for selling, taking bribes, but who wouldn't? Anyway now I'm a marked man, and I'm hidin' out down here, but there's this scumbag Donny Miller, used to be my partner, says he's gonna rat me out to the cops. I can't have that! So I want you to take care of him. Make sure ya take _really_ good care of him, ya know?"

"I get it. . ." I sighed.

"He always takes a taxi from work at four, over to his apartment in Hepburn heights. I don't expect to hear his name again except in the obituaries, you got it?"

"Sure thing. . ."

"Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while. How much money you got?"

"Five hundred bucks. . ."

"Wow, kid, you're broke. What you driving?"

"Stolen fire truck."

"Ah ha ha! Nah, seriously, that's great, really. See ya around kid."

"Jackass." I whispered, walking out of the bathroom, being able to breath again. I followed the path once more, back to my vehicle, but instead waited for a taxi, so I could pick up Donny from work and silence him.

I saw an empty taxi rounding the corner, and poised myself on the balls of my feet. As it drove onward, I leapt off the pavement and to the ground (A trick I learned from Rakin and Ponzer personal injury attorneys) and pretended to have been hit. The taxi screeched to a halt, the driver door opened. I lay on my back, head pointing to the side as the driver's feet neared. He stopped with his feet only inches from my side and looked down nervously. He took a moment to look around to check if anyone had seen him, and at that point I grabbed his ankles and pulled him to the floor, before leaping up, getting in his taxi (ignition still on), and speeding away, making sure he stayed down by driving over him.

I drove back the way I had come not much earlier. The traffic leaving Staunton was much scarcer than that fleeing Portland. And who could blame them? I was across the bridge in record time, peeling round the corner and avoiding both Chinatown and St Mark's with ease. I stopped outside the police station at a quarter to four and waited on my man.

About five minutes later another taxi appeared, the driver honking his horn to signal his presence to his potential fare. This annoyed me, so I climbed out of my taxi and approached his, pressing my hands against the roof, waiting for him to roll down his window.

"Hey, punk," I said, "I already got this fare, so amscray."

"Like hell I will! I need the money! Don't make me kick yo' ass!" he yelled.

"This doesn't have to get ugly."

"Too late!"

He stepped out of his taxi, flinging the door in my gut. I kicked it back at him and charged him into the side of the cab, my elbow across his throat to choke him and my other arm in his gut. "Look! Here's sixty bucks for your trouble. Get the hell outta here."

"Alright, alright!" he screamed, taking off with the money.

I shook my head and sighed, counted the money I had left and put it back in my jacket pocket. The station doors swung open. I cursed quietly and ran back to the cab, starting the ignition again as an officer walked down the steps. He stuck his head through the window.

"Hey Larry." he said coolly. "Wait, you're not Larry! Who the hell-"

"Hey, calm down. Larry's sick." I lied. "Climb in. Officer Miller, right?"

"Yeah. Can ya take me to Hepburn Heights?"

"Sure thing, chief." I put the car into reverse and spun the wheel until we were facing the other way, and throttled forward.

"Hey, hey, this isn't the way to Hepburn Heights!"

I pulled over a block away from the station. "Oh, isn't it?" I reached under the seat for my baseball bat.

"Y. . .yeah," he mumbled, uneasily, "it's. . .the other way."

"I know. I used to live there myself." I lifted the bat onto my lap. "Thing is, mister Miller, we're not going to Hepburn Heights."

"The hell? What you doing with that bat?" he screamed.

"We can't have you escaping, Donny boy." I mused, striking the bat across Donny's knees with a loud, sickening crack, his legs going limp and contorted as he screamed his pain at the top of his lungs. I swung the bat again at torso level, connecting with the bones in his arm, watching the joint in his elbow pop out of place and blood soaked bone pierce through his flesh with a disgusting white and red colour. I grinned, swung the bat for the third time, aiming for his other arm, tearing it clean off as patches of blood started to form on his trousers and shirt, his throat going hoarse from the screams and his voice disappearing. Tears coated his eyes and cheeks in glistening silver.

I wiped the blood off the bat, and put it back under the seat.

Donny lay, barely concious, contorted inhumanly, with his limbs hanging inanimately from the sockets and blood seeping from him.

I geared up the engine again, and drove to Easy Credit Autos, took a left, onto a dirt road and followed it down to the enormous yellow crane which glinted in the sun, forcing me to squint to see.

I parked on the chalk "X", and left the car, waving happily to Donny through the back window. I sat on the ground and watched as the magnet on the crane lowered slowly, attached to the car and began to haul it upwards, before letting it drop into the bucket, Donny screaming in terror and agony as the towering metal walls of the container contracted, crushing with an immensely high pitched screeching of metal, the still living Donny, and the taxi, into nothing more than a blood soaked cube.

I laughed, and dusted my hands to signify a job well done.

I assumed it was no coincidence that Easy credit Autos was situated right above the car crusher, ready to catch people as they walked by without a vehicle. It was, however, ironic that their showroom vehicle, a blue and black striped Banshee, happened to be unlocked, keys taped to the dashboard with the word "bargain" scrawled on an easy-clean whiteboard.

I took off, shattering the floor to ceiling showroom windows for no particular reason in the process, and drove to the Pay N Spray in Hepburn Heights, waiting for an hour or so for them to respray the car a bright lipstick red colour and change the license plates. I assumed I would have to meet Ray in the park again to get my payment, and after spending the rest of my already meagre cash on the respray (despite the drop in prices now that the owner doesn't have to pay the Mob for protection), I could really use some cash.

I cruised through Hepburn Heights, under the train tracks, and across the Callahan bridge, my arm resting lazily on the top of the door frame, the wind soothing on my face. Not paying much attention, I ran the red light after the bridge, and overtook three drivers before noticing I was in a commercial area. No one seemed to care, except one driver who offered some choice expletives on my passing.

The park was bereft of human life. By the looks of things it only inhabited prostitutes and drug dealers anyway, the kinds of life that are pretty much nocturnal.

In the filthy restroom, asbestos, grease and other unmentionable stains covered the once white tiles of the walls. Looking at your reflection in one of the hanging mirrors proved futile, the metal long corroded so they looked almost identical to the tiles.

Ray wasn't around. What I did find was a note, written on a few sheets of toilet paper, requesting I meet him at Kenji's Casino if I wanted paid, since he was in a bit of a difficult situation.

I threw the note down in disgust, but not because of what it said. I marched out of the bathroom, tossing my car keys from hand to hand, and walked along the path, pushing over a junkie who choked out the words "got a light?" and got a little too close for comfort.

I followed the parade of Yakuza Stingers, a line of maybe twenty or thirty cars slowly drifting South along a dual carriageway, a single Japanese man in a white tuxedo diverting all other traffic elsewhere. I slipped in behind the queue without hassle, and was led to the casino, with its brightly lit blue and red neon archway, washed out looking red flags inscribed with Japanese lettering, but the building was without the warm, hypnotizing glow a casino should have.

Something was amiss.

I walked through the glass doors into the foyer decorated in various shades of red, with buzzing neon slogans, crimson velvet carpeting, red/pink wallpaper and perfectly contrasting navy blue ceiling. In the middle, their clothing doing a complete disservice to the fabulously decorated room were some Asian looking people in black and grey suits, and Ray, the only one I recognised, in the same brown suit he had been wearing earlier.

I walked over loudly (as loud as I could make my footsteps on the thick carpet) in order to demand my money. I opened my mouth to speak.

"Oh, kid, it's horrible!" Ray stumbled over and grabbed me by the shoulders.

What about my money, Ray? I choked the words back down before I spoke them, sighed to myself and said in an exasperated tone, "What's wrong?"

"It's Kenji. He's been murdered, kid."

"By some cowardly Cartel scum!" yelled a dark haired Asian woman in a grey suit jacket and matching bottoms. She walked over. "Who is this, Ray?"

"This guy sorta works for me." he replied.

"You, you trustworthy? You look trustworthy. Maybe you can do a little job for me, and make sure my brother Kenji's death does not go unavenged."

I tried to mouth to Ray to give me my money so I could leave.

"You can do that for Asuka, right, kid?" Ray said without asking, nodding his head up and down in the process.

"I. . .I guess. . ."

"Ah, kid, that's fantastic news!"

Asuka took me by the arm and led me away from the group.

"My expert sources tell me that the Cartel will be having a meeting later today in an abandoned warehouse in Portland, near the docks. Please put the fear of God into them, for my brother's sake, and for this you will be generously rewarded."

"I'll do it."

"I knew you wouldn't refuse. I will personally take you to Portland Docks by boat from the harbour by my condo, my personal chauffeur will drive us. Follow me."

I went with Asuka out the back exit of the casino. No one was gambling, only a dozen suits stood around in silence, out of respect for the departed owner. Asuka led me to a lime green Kuruma in the casino parking lot, where her driver was already waiting. We both got in the back and a sheet of black coloured glass rose to separate the front and back seats for privacy.

"Do you have a place to live?" asked Asuka, as the car wheeled out of the lot and onto the street.

"Not yet. My house was destroyed and I don't have any money for a hotel." I replied, trying not to conjure up too many bad memories.

"I will buy you a house."

"That's. . .that's really generous of you." I said, surprised.

"What you are doing is a great service to me, and I reward gestures of generosity with equally generous rewards. I can buy you a condo, near mine. It will be a nice house. They have a very nice view also, over to the sea and to Portland. Every morning I look out my window and laugh to myself at all the poor fools on that side of the river."

"That sounds great." I was still in mild shock.

"Do you have a car?"

"Yeah, I have a car."

"Would you like another car?"

"I. . .uh. . ."

"I will get you a car."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to. It is the least I can do."

"Th. . .thank you."

The car came to a slow stop. I looked out of the window to see the ocean, most of it hidden behind orange coloured buildings.

"Is that where I'll be staying?" I asked, as we descended the steps to a speedboat.

"Yes, probably in this complex here." she pointed to a building further over as she stepped carefully off the pier into the back of the boat, gesturing for me to do the same.

The water was turgid and disgusting. By the looks of it you could walk to Portland instead of taking the boat. It was scary to think what unimaginable horrors lay beyond the surface of Liberty's ocean. I bet plenty of problems are washed away out here.

The turbulent waters rocked the boat around, splashing us with muddy coloured liquid as thick as syrup. I shook as much as I could from my clothes, the rest stayed to form a dark stain.

The driver swerved around jagged rocks, almost tipping the boat on more than one occasion, provoking angry Japanese shouting from Asuka, who somehow was able to keep her rage under control until we docked at the other side of the sea. Immediately I saw a convoy of Cartel Cruisers, lined up like huge metallic blue criminals, not to be reckoned with.

No sooner had I stepped out of the shaky boat had Askua and her scared shitless driver departed for safer waters. I wondered how she expected me to get back. Pushing this thought out of my mind, I then wondered how I could dispose of six or more car loads of Cartel drug pushers without ending up as another lump in the ocean. The idea hit me when I heard a screech of tyres, as I jumped out of the path of the speeding van from where the noise originated. The van swerved clumsily around me, two bundles of papers sliding out the back to my feet. I gathered them hastily, as the sound of another van rocketing past alerted me, and I hid behind some empty barrels of tanker fuel.

I glared in menacing disgust at the cover. "El Burro's Donkey XXX", clearly hot property (as illustrated by the release date, two dates after today) which would explain the speeding van. A wicked idea came to me, and I took the magazine bundles under either arm and walked to the factory across the spacious loading area. Making sure no one was watching, I emptied roughly equal quantities of stolen porn into each cruiser's sun roof, leaving me with the distributor's ticket, naming the owner to be El Burro, and providing his number in case merchandise be stolen or lost. I promptly called the number, getting through in little more than three rings, explained innocently that I saw some bad men in blue jeep things with these magazines and decided it was important to call him.

I waited from behind the fuel tanks again as in just over four minutes, a hoard of hot rods with flame paint jobs barrelled into the docks, hammered into the Cruisers, and flooded into the building guns blazing. The building lit up with gun fire. I could hear shouts and cursing from the inside, the steady beat of the bullets leaving the guns and plunging into careless foes and the hoarse wheezing screams which followed. A window shattered on the second floor as a Hawaiian shirted man plummeted to his death below, riddled with bullet holes and oozing puddles of blood onto the paving.

Almost as soon as it started, it was over. Dozens of Diablo hoodlums stormed out of the building with bats in hand and went to work on the Cruisers, smashing them enough that they could reach in for the magazines, before returning to their muscle cars and returning to wherever they came from.

After the show, I called a taxi, and watched it skid expertly into the docks minutes later. The driver carelessly flung open the door and ordered me inside, I told him where I was heading, he reluctantly accepted, and gunned it down the path to Staunton.

Tomorrow, if all goes to plan, I'll meet with Asuka again and maybe even get my house and some money. Things were really starting to look up. . .


	4. Liberty SPANK Scandal: Part 1

**Warning: Large walls of text and needless swearing ahead. Forty "fucks" in fact. Enjoy.**

Night time Belleville was nesting ground for purple suited pimps, undesirable girls, homeless people tired out after a hard day of trying to stay alive and wondering where their next drink will come from, and junkie's sleeping off their last fix. It felt like a minefield; stepping around the path littered with bodies and avoiding offers from pimps and prostitutes trying to deter me from my mission. A mission that involved money.

I found Ray hiding in a cubical, his feet visible through the space in the floor, and rather than open it up and see the horrors that could be behind it, I leaned against the filthy metal door and spoke to it instead.

"Hey," I addressed it.

"Hey, kid, how ya doin'?"

"I been better." I offered steadily.

"Listen, thanks for clearin' up that mess for me, and helpin' out my pal Asuka. I got a little somethin' you might like to know, hush-hush like."

"Yeah?" I craned to hear.

"I got word from a _very_ reliable source, that Salvatore sent one of his men, a part driver, part hitman, to torch your house. And it turns out the same guy actually killed Sal himself. Sorry I doubted you kid."

"I told you! I was there, I saw him do it!"

"Yeah, I heard. . . Listen kid, you have a price on your head. This guy, whoever he may be, he don't much like the idea that you got shit on him – and who can blame him? - so, ya know, watch yourself. You got a lot goin' for ya right now."

"What the hell do you mean I "got a lot goin' for me"?" I mimicked, my mind racing through the rest of what Ray said. "My fuckin' family were killed, now I'm gonna be killed, I got no fuckin' money, no fuckin' home, no fuckin' family or friends, and the only person I get to talk to is some washed out fuckin' cop who lives in a fuckin' bathroom!" I was breathing heavily, I could feel the blood rushing to my head.

"Asuka likes you, kid." Ray responded deadpan. "Believe me, you're fuckin' goin' places. She wants to meet you again, she has big plans for ya, kid. Big, big plans." He took a breath, turned it into a sigh. "And I like you too, kid. That's why I'm gonna forget what you just said.. I know my life aint exactly what you would call glamorous. I know I live in a fuckin' shithole – no pun intended – and I know I've worn the same shitty suit for close to a fuckin' year. But I'm just like you. My life was fuckin' great, I got paid a shit load of cash for bein' a "good cop" made almost double it being the "bad cop", made even more skimming drugs and selling it on, shakin' down crooked bookies, lettin' em go for a cut of their deal. That's the big fuckin' problem, kid. When you live the high life, you got a lot of vermin trying to pull you back down and claw their way into your place. 1991 my wife left me to work in San An-fucking-dreas. Barbara was a good cop, said she couldn't take the risk, the paranoia, the constant looking over your shoulder and instantly suspecting every wandering eyed pedestrian to be a double agent or a hitman or a witness with a flair for words and no incentive to put a fuckin' cork in it. She took the kids, despite all the great toys I bribed them with and I never seen her again.

"So I got myself a partner that _understood_ what the phrase "filthy fucking rich" meant and we fuckin' owned the town. This was before all the gangs started to migrate to our fair little city and wet their beaks. Back when it used to be the Forellis and the Sindaccos. We made so much cash. They gave me and officer. . .fuck, what was his name. . .Pulaski, yeah that was it. A young kid at the time, not the sharpest lad out there but easily the most loyal. Together, with him doing everything I fuckin' told him we got it all. Then the Leones tried to muscle in on the other family's turf. The decade long truce between the Sindaccos and Forellis ended, and an era of bloodshed, deception, betrayal and hurt began, spiralling out of control through the coming years. Me and Eddie made a living by selling information for fat paychecks and respect. I got Eddie sneakin' into the station at least once a week, returning with copies of files on Forelli/Sindacco/Leone Family involvement in Liberty City, and we sold them on to the Families, none of them with a fuckin' clue that they were bein' betrayed. And it went on like this for about four years. Other Families came and went, the Sindaccos disappeared, only the Leones and Forellis stayed. A Chinese gang, Triads or somethin' came here about a year after the Three Family War, but before they could even think about causing trouble, the Leone's had em eating out of their fuckin' palms.

"But little did we know, while we worked our asses off in Portland, a million other gangs took over Staunton and Shoreside, the Cartel being the latest one, springin' up within the last year maybe. Yakuza, Yardie, Hoods, makin' pretty good fuckin' money. I always wanted a cut of that money, but Eddie Pulaski said why spoil a good thing and I guessed he was right.

"So one day we were in the cells after hours, countin' the dough, when the door bursts open, this tall, fuckin' skinny black cop, bald apart from some wisps on the side he looked like he was desperately trying to hold on to. So he pulls up a fuckin' combat shotgun, me and Eddie shittin' ourselves, and points it at us, fuckin' winks, helps himself to all the fuckin' money on the table before he even says the first word. "Nice little game you got here guys" he says. "Here's how it's gonna work. I take your fuckin' cash, or, I fuckin' take you down fuckin' town. Fuckin' got it?" I keep my cool, aint takin' shit from some punk, ya know, but Pulaski mumbles a "yes sir" and gets offered a fuckin' job! You believe that shit? So Pulaski runs off with _Officer Tenpenny_, boards a fuckin' plane to Los fuckin' Santos and leaves me with shit. Without that dumb fuck Pulaski on my ass I could finally leave Portland and cut a deal with the Yakuza. I told em every little fuckin' detail about the Mafia and burned the Yakuza police file right in front of em. We made partners and I was well on my way to straightenin' my life out again, when I gets a call. Pulaski ratted me out to fuckin' IA and I got em sniffin' around trying to take me down.

"And that's my fuckin' life. I still get great pay but I can't even buy myself a new fuckin' suit without some bastard trying to cuff me. That was my fuckin' life, and you say I'm a fuckin' bum. So how does your fuckin' life compare? You got lucky, punk. When your life turned to shit you got another big break. It's too late for me, kid. I envy you. I'll tell you the one piece of advice that'll get you to the top and keep you there. Trust, is SHIT. You can buy people's trust like that, and they're loyal until someone gives em a better fuckin' offer. Remember that, kid. Remember it well."

I stood there, stunned. Ray really had lived an astounding life. I nodded, too frightened and shocked to speak and I left, doing as Ray said and comparing my life story to his. I lost my family, like Ray lost his, except his were probably still alive. I worked for the mob like he did, except I worked for their trust while he bought it. We both got betrayed by people we trusted and we both ended up being left for dead and fending for ourselves. Maybe he was right, maybe I did get lucky. At least I didn't have to live in a bathroom.

I could feel his eyes burning into me as I climbed the stairs. I walked to the casino to see if Asuka was there – I didn't have enough money for another taxi. A green Esperanto drove up next to me, a black clothed arm with an Uzi on the end extended from the window. I yelled, dived behind a bush and hit the deck, hands over my head. The drilling sound of ejected bullets kept ringing out and was almost drowned out by the sound of them whizzing by inches from my person. People screamed, and crumpled to the ground clutching bloody wounds and clawing their way along the grass in their attempt to steer clear of the drive-by. I rolled outward from the hedge and propped myself up against a sturdy tree, my heart beating like crazy. The slight glimpse I got of the shooters face before the incident showed him to be vaguely familiar to someone I had seen before.

I turned the thought over in my head as I walked away from the commotion and the wail of ambulances and loved ones alike, and made my way slowly and conscientiously to the casino.

_Where did I know him from?_

_Why was he trying to kill me?_

I saw Kenji's at the end of the block, and it hit me. I remembered back to something Ray had said.

"_Salvatore sent one of his men to torch your house."_

"_kid, you have a price on your head."_

_The man from the Sex Club murder. Salvatore's killer was after me and trying to kill me. _

_Ray was right._

The casino was still locked up, I knocked on the back door and got a small, friendly looking Japanese man in a pearl white suit and red tie. He must have recognised me, because he immediately stepped away from the door, bowing as I walked past. He then quickly jumped in front of me to lead me into the VIP lounge where Asuka sat alone, a box of tissues and some pictures of her and Kenji spread out over the circular wooden table. She appeared to brighten up when she saw me come in.

"Thank you!" she cried, running to me with her arms outstretched. "Thank you so much!"

"It was nothing. . ." I replied, a little uncomfortable.

"Come. Let us get your house."

"O. . .okay."

We walked out to the parking area again and I looked for my car. Asuka approached from behind me and slipped keys into my hand, and pushed me towards a Yakuza Stinger.

"Now this is your car. Come on. You will drive to the house."

"What about my other car? Where is it?"

"It has already been delivered to your new home."

"But how?" I asked, feeling the keys in my pocket.

"Haha, "but how?", that's funny. Come on."

I opened the passenger door to let Asuka in, then let myself in the other side. The interior was leather, all black and very very clean.

"It's brand new." she said.

"Thank you so much." I said, remembering Ray's "you're going places" line.

"You remember how to get to the condos?" she asked.

"I think so."

"Good. Let's go."

I drove out of the car park onto the neon lit, Vegas-like Strip and drove through the animated Staunton night life. The thick one-way glass prevented outside sound from entering the vehicle, making the silence even more stony. Asuka finally broke it.

"I would like you to do another job, if it's okay."

I still haven't been paid for the last one, I thought.

"Look in the glove compartment." she said, as if reading my thoughts.

I opened the compartment to find a plain white envelope with a thin red seal. Also in there was a torch.

"Ray's money to you is there as well."

I nodded, and decided not to open it while I was driving. "What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Do you know what SPANK is?"

"I don't think so." I responded, confused.

"It is a drug. Recent rumours – rumours from Ray, which are undoubtedly always true - suggest that the Cartel are selling it. We have also received word from another anonymous tipster that a very large shipment came in recently and is being held in a construction site not far from our homes. I'll point it out on the way."

"So, you want me to steal it?"

"No, no thank you. I want you to follow it, when they deliver it to their client."

"How do you know it's going to the same client?"

"Our sources suggest that a very rich man - or woman - has requested a vast amount of the poison. I want you to find out who."

"Okay. When are they delivering?"

"We don't have exact details, but one of ours has been watching the site for around a week, and any hot produce taken to the site always leaves sometime on the exact same day."

"So I'll wait near the site and watch them leaving?"

"Exactly. I knew I could count on you. Thank you."

Another few minutes of silence followed, and Asuka pointed to the construction yard, a building in very early stages of development surrounded by a blue fence. A minute later we had arrived at the apartments.

"I see my car over here." I pointed. "Is that where I'm staying?"

"That's it." She handed me a key.

"Thank you so much."

"Don't mention it. However I would request that you acquaint yourself with the place later."

"You want me to start staking out the yard?"

"Yes. I trust you will do a good job."

Trust. I laughed to myself. Ray was right again, trust really can be bought.

I parked the Stinger by Asuka's condo and let her get out.

"One more thing," she said among much gratuitous praising, "don't go in the Stinger, they will suspect you."

"Good idea." I said, having already been thinking that myself.

I drove along the asphalt and left the Stinger next to my Banshee, quickly switched between the two , taking the torch and envelope with me, and drove off up the hill to the building site. I parked just across the street from the entrance, turned off the engine and the lights, making the car seem almost invisible in the darkness. I rolled down the windows, a wave of cold air hitting me, and listened.

I was startled by the sound of talking, thick Mexican accents shouting and swearing. I checked my watch. Five in the morning. It was still dark. When the talking ceased, I saw a Cartel Cruiser, identical in appearance and colour to the ones in Portland. It waited for the red and white bar to be raised, and rolled out slowly on to the road, heading South. I turned the engine on when it rounded the corner, and gave chase. I turned the corner myself, seeing the Cruiser's brake lights faintly up ahead. I kept my distance, and found it hard to keep track of the tiny red lights and indicators in the glowing neon metropolis. I switched off my lights, letting me get a few yards closer and still remain in the shadows and out of sight. I stayed two cars behind him as we travelled down the dual carriageway, I let the driver go ahead a bit. Both the cars between us turned off to the left down a slip road, forcing me to close the gap. He kept to the speed limit well for a criminal. He took an unexpected right at Kenji's casino, I panicked and screeched the brakes, the driver looked like he panicked because he sped up a lot. I drove past the turn, turned around and then followed, hoping the driver would be put at ease if it looked like I wasn't tailing him. I expected to have lost him, and almost confirmed that when I saw him take the first left and disappear from sight – he too had killed his lights. I went the same way as him anyway, expecting to have failed in my attempts. I guess I got lucky. The car had stopped, the driver was gone.

I parked across the street, a bit away from the Cruiser. I opened my door silently, turning off the purring of the engine. I ducked behind my car, scoping out the building across from me through the front windows. Keeping low to the ground, I half ran, half crept across the street, pushing myself up against the Cruiser to avoid being seen. I peered through the windows, there was no stash, no driver, no clues, no nothing.

A light flashed on several stories up the building. Two figures, one a short fat man, the other tall and skinny were standing there like silhouettes, making actions with their hands. I removed the torch from my pocket, and shone it on the wall of the building, trying to decipher the embossed logo stretched across it. The torch lit an enormous distance, but the lettering was still faint.

I saw an L.

Then an O, V and E.

Love?

It didn't make sense. I moved the torch around, the light dancing like a marionette. A scanned over the letters a few more times, sent the light to the top of the building, the bottom, the top again, where I saw the garden area, plush greenery and blooming flowers. Then I remembered where I had seen it before, in the travel magazine about Liberty City.

The drugs were being delivered to Love Media.

I danced the torch around in triumph, then shut it off. I took another glance at the transaction room, and saw the short fat man glaring back down. I gulped nervously. The light faded into darkness.

I ran back to my car and started the engine. In the same second, the Love Media doors almost blew off their hinges, as the fat man, who I now noticed was wearing a pink Hawaiian shirt and cowboy hat plodded out, firing round after round from his pistol.

I cursed at my poor choice of vehicle, ducking down behind the door frame of my convertible as bullets flew all around – the handiwork of a trigger happy maniac.

The engine stalled, I slammed my fists hard down on the dashboard and tried again, the sweet sound of the roaring engine filling the air. I took off, leaving the fat man in my dust. But there was no time to celebrate yet. The familiar green Esperanto pulled out of an alley in front of me, revved it's engine and took up the lane on my left. The car scraped against mine, I shielded my eyes from sparks, cursing and waving my arm in all directions.

Once again his window rolled down, and out stretched that black clad arm. This time a .38 glinted in the moonlight and echoed into the air with a click. I screamed, slammed down on the brakes as the bullet ejected from the gun, tearing through the paintwork on the front of my car. I stopped, catching my breath and trying to recover from the shock as the green Esperanto faded into the distance.

Rather than risk driving the same way as the car, back to Asuka's condo to give her the news, I U-turned and parked behind the casino, parking between two large SUVs in hope that no one would recognise the car. I greeted the small Japanese man again, and asked him to call Asuka. He skipped over to the phone immediately and dialled a number, receiving an answer in what could only have been two rings. He spoke hurriedly in Japanese, moving his head from side to side and occasionally switching hands with the phone. He finished speaking, and nodded his head as the voice on the other side spoke back. He laughed, said something (probably "bye") and hung up, approaching me again.

"Ah, miss Asuka Kasen will be here in ten minutes. I tell her it was an emergency."

"Thank you."

"My preasure." he said, led me to a chair in the lounge and skipped away back to the door, rolling up his sleeves.

I sat, drumming my fingers on the coffee table, keeping my eyes fixed either on my watch or on the door. Exactly seven minutes after I sat, there was a knock at the door. The doorman jumped in fright (he had nearly nodded off), quickly rolled his sleeves back down, straightened his collar, smoothed his hair and opened the door. Asuka almost mowed him down on her way in, tossing some notes at him as she passed. She pulled a chair up next to me and said, "What is it?"

"Sorry, you didn't have to rush all the way down here. Were you sleeping?" I asked, feeling guilty.

"I almost never sleep." she replied seriously.

"I found out who the drugs were going to." I said.

"Who?"

"A fat man in a Cruiser left them with someone at Love Media about half an hour ago."

"Donald Love is buying SPANK?" she yelled excitedly. "This is too perfect! We have ourselves a scandal! I'll alert our people at the newspapers to make up a story on it, and tomorrow, we will sort it out."

"Me?"

"If you would. I'll be with you, as well as a trained army of our finest men."

"Sounds tough."

"It will be dangerous, we must be stealthy, discrete, _deadly._" she laughed evilly. "You go home now, sleep well, and tomorrow meet me here to begin. You will be rewarded well for this, do not worry."

I nodded, picked up my coat and left for "home".


	5. Liberty SPANK Scandal: Part 2

**A/N: Sorry for the lack of updating, I have lots of exams to study for and just didn't feel like writing recently. I hope this chapter was worth waiting for, I think it was. . .**

One condo. My condo – spacious, cosy; a fold out bed and a dining table adorning opposing corners. A floor to ceiling window opened out over the crystal blue ocean. The mid afternoon sun beat through the glass making the room seem cheery and warm.

Pity I was just leaving.

I gathered my possessions (it didn't take long – an envelope of money and a set of house/car keys), trudged down the stairs and pushed the door out onto the parking bay.

I could actually _choose_ which car I wanted to drive.

I took the Banshee, _my _Banshee, and took the sun drenched, glistening highway to Kenji's - awaiting renaming from Asuka, the legal owner, as stated in her brother's will.

They were waiting for me – a march of penguin suited Asian men, one female clad in a black PVC catsuit, zipped up to just above the ribcage waving to me excitedly and receiving strange looks from passer bys.

"A. .Asuka?" I managed, leaning out the car door.

"It's a mission!"

"You look like Catwoman." I joked.

"Just wait 'til you see yours." she answered. "C'mon, ditch the car round back, meet me out here."

I parked the car in the parking lot again and walked out front, trying to avoid eye contact and awkward discussions.

"Who's driving?" I asked the ground at my feet.

"Guess." said Asuka.

I nodded – should've seen it coming.

Asuka pointed up the straight and jumped up and down on the spot. I followed her gaze. A few blocks away, a large van – it looked like a painted Securicar – was gunning down the road towards us. The driver hit the E brake from a few metres away and screeched into position next to the pavement, engulfing us in a cloud of smoke. One of the hubcaps fell and trundled off lazily.

It wasn't a painted Securicar. It was a _regular_ Securicar.

"Okay, okay! Everyone in! Now people, move!" Asuka yelled urgently.

"Didn't you say I had an outfit to put on?" I asked.

"You can do it on the way."

"_While I'm driving?_"

"Jem will drive then."

"Okay, so who's -"

"Everyone in the truck!"

Like soldiers the men marched into the van. Asuka disappeared for a moment and returned with a bundle of accessories.

"Your spy suit." she said, dumping the bundle on the floor. I picked up the clothes – matching pants and jacket, black/grey in colour (presumably for camouflage), black boots and a black balaclava.

Inside the balaclava was a gun, a .45 that fell into my free hand.

I removed my shoes, and the truck jerked into life, sending me to the ground, much to the amusement of the other men. I picked myself up, pulled the pants on on top of my own, slipped the jacket over my white shirt and tied the boots. Then I sat on the floor, scanning the unflinching, determined expressions of the other men, all standing.

Asuka appeared, crawling through a small gap between the front seats.

"Gentlemen," she said, beginning a steady pacing, "just a quick run through of our objective today.

"As you should all be aware, Donald Love, owner of Love Media and essentially all of Liberty City the way things are going, is involved in some shady dealings. One of ours traced a substantial shipment of new designer drug "SPANK", a key product in our rival organisation – the Cartel's – repertoire.

"As yet we have no information of what it is Love intends to do with this vast quantity of illegal substances, but we aim to find out. This is where you come in. You have been assigned by myself – and I _am_ your boss now, in case any of you had doubts – to learn his plans, by infiltrating Love Media Headquarters undetected. Sounds easy, right? WRONG! Love has an unknown number of patrolmen stationed throughout the many storeys of his complex, with orders to simply shoot first, and ask questions later.

"We have confirmed that CCTV video cameras are positioned in the building and can be viewed from a control room located on the ground floor near the entrance. If we can seize the control room, I will keep watch for signs of danger and keep you all briefed via interlinked radio headsets. These also allow you to communicate with each other. You will find them in the bundle in front of you."

Half a dozen men reached down and scooped up a head set.

"We'll just give these a test. Everyone put theirs on." she said. She picked up a radio and softly spoke, "Test, test, do you copy?"

A thin crackle of static died and the voice came through clear as a bell. I confirmed through the microphone and heard my voice projected a millisecond later through seven radios.

"Excellent." continued Asuka. "Now, we are nearing our destination. Does anyone have any questions concerning our objective?" A pause, no questions raised. "Good. You have all been issued a hat to cover your face and a gun equipped with a silencer. I suggest you take no prisoners, shoot to kill and don't alert any guards. Remember, the bodies of the men you kill won't just disappear. Good luck."

The van slowed to a halt. Asuka grabbed the seats to keep her balance. A few seconds later the doors swung open with a loud creak and the men poured out, fitting their balaclavas and loading their guns.

The van was parked on the same side of road as the building. We ran heads down behind the van out of sight and gathered round Asuka, who was holding a floor plan of Love Media Enterprises.

"There's a camera outside the building so we have to be quick. The control booth is manned by one guard. Someone here must kill him before he sees us and calls attention to us." Her eyes raised towards me, I couldn't avoid eye contact this time. I cursed mentally. "Excellent. So, when ready, run in and the booth will be on your left as soon as you enter."

I got up off the ground, hunched slightly to keep behind the van. I poised – weight on my toes – checked the clip once more – you can never be too careful – and ran.

I sprinted round the front of the van, across the pavement, up the steps – keeping so close to the ground my face nearly hit the stairs – and didn't stop running even when I came to the door.

I wrapped my right arm across my chest, extended my bicep, forced all the weight onto my right foot and dived through the glass door, landing amidst jagged shards, rolling, facing the booth on one knee. I broke down the door with a right kick to reveal the fat man inside searching for a button to call for help.

I smirked a little.

I thrusted his chair from under him with a kick, grabbing his silk tie with my left hand, and held him dangling there, unable to scream, watching his face turn purple and his tongue retch out his mouth. I raised the gun to the back of his head while his flailing arms centred around his neck, nudged him with the barrel to instil even more fear into him and ejected a bullet into his skull, leaving him to slump lifelessly to the floor, as the spray splattered across the booth windows, blood oozing down. I nudged the body under a desk with my foot, a small silver piece of metal floundering in a sticky red pool beside his corpse.

Asuka walked through the shattered doorway – funeral procession speed, pall bearers shuffling to keep in time – clapping slowly but sincerely. The other men were staring at their shoes.

She brushed hair out her face, licked her lips. "Excellent."

She strolled past me into the booth, picked up the dead man's chair and sat at the control panels, adjusting her headset to look "more authentic".

She adjusted the seat, unzipped her catsuit even more, brushed her hair out of her face again, adjusted the chair some more, and spoke. "Gentlemen."

Half a dozen heads looked upwards with a series of muffled mumblings.

"Gentlemen, _we are in._" She smiled devilishly. "You three – Rin, Ryu, Jan – guard a floor each, including this one. Jan, you stay here with me, you two follow the rest of the group and break off at the first and second floor. The last few floors as we get closer to the top will be the most heavily guarded, so the remaining four of you will be sticking together to the top. Questions?"

One puzzled looking man raised a nervous arm.

"Yes?" questioned Asuka.

"Well. . .why do we have to go to the top? Our floor plan shows many of the facilities, including the laboratory and filing room to be on the tenth floor of this thirteen floor building."

"Very well." Asuka sighed, noticeably disappointed, "New plan. We will make our way to floor ten. There are seven of you, so Jan will remain here to guard the entrance with me. Rin and Ryu will position themselves at key entrance points to the tenth floor to eliminate approaching threats while the rest of you investigate the facilities. Meanwhile I will try to keep you a step ahead of the competition with these cameras and the communicative headsets. Questions? Good."

Seven guns loaded with a series of consequent clicks. Asuka half gasped, half screamed.

"What the hell is that?" She kicked the lump under the table, causing more blood to spew out the mouth.

"Sorry, should've warned you. . ." I said, suppressing laughter. She kicked the body again in disgust.

In the meantime, the question man walked to the elevator to the left of the control booth and pressed the button a few times. Immediately the doors flew open and his head was blown off, pieces of skull and brain dyed red exploding in all directions. The killer stood with an evil grin and flashed a smug wink. The doors started to whir – a sign they were about to close. I fired six – _ting ting ting ting ting – _metal against metal, doors deflecting bullets – then contact, between the eyes, the back wall painted red. And the doors stayed open just long enough to watch the guard collapse to the elevator floor, his protruding gun arm ripped off by the pressure of the closing doors.

A few wide eyed onlookers applauded, visibly shaking.

"Move out, people." croaked Asuka, averting her eyes. "T. . .take the stairs. Same plan."

We crept to the stairs in front of us, Rin and I ahead, the others behind us three abreast. Both hands firmly gripped around my weapons, I held it slightly to my right side, keeping myself pressed against the left wall in anticipation for the turn at the top. The stairs were grey concrete, the walls plastered white. The cold air and tension bounced off the walls. The steps levelled out onto the first floor, another plastered, off-white wall ahead, a ninety degree left turn with a uniformed hand showing two or three metres ahead. I motioned to the others to stay put, and whispered to Asuka through the headset, "How many guards are on the first floor? And whisper or you'll kill us all, godammit."

A moment's silence and then, faintly, "There's two. One right in front of you, the other guarding the other staircase at the other end of the building. But he's walking your way so he'll see you if you go up."

"Okay," I whispered to everyone, "don't move. Don't say a word."

I pressed my back against the wall, edging closer to the flailing hand, my gun on my chest, barrel pointing straight up. I stopped moving an inch from the edge of the wall, held my breath for good measure. I moved my left hand gingerly from the barrel and tensed the muscles into a claw like shape just above the oblivious man's hand round the corner.

Then in one sweeping movement I pivoted out from the wall while simultaneously yanking his hand towards me; when I found myself facing the man I caught him staggering backwards into my grasp, his face the same colour as the walls.

His pal came running just a little too quick, caught shots in the shoulder, went down hard on the linoleum. My guy writhed, pleaded incomprehensible ramblings, hit the ground running to make it a sport and took a bullet in the leg. I smothered him with my boot, keeping the weight pressed down until the panic ceased.

Four pairs of eyes peered around the corner, horrified. I motioned upwards – next floor. Hurried "yessirs!" and falling into step behind me as we took to the next floor, leaving a trail of dead.

We headed up to the next floor, so close to the ground as to almost be crawling, and stopped facing a double doorway, the second floor corridor behind it and to the left, the building's second staircase away along the corridor, forcing more care to be taken on stealth measures.

A small rectangular window revealed a careless guard's head. I made the signal to the others and covered the rest of the stairs to the door alone, pressing up against the left wall. I timed my actions based on the expressions of the four Japanese men on the stairs.

When their eyes widened, I poised myself. A slow creak filled the air. The door eased open, pulled by the man behind it. I saw a black leather shoe come down hard on the floor – he was running. I extended my leg, hooking his feet around it and sent him hurtling down the flight of stairs into a hail of gunfire, his bullet riddled body leaking vital organs at the bottom surrounded by some blood splattered men. You could hear the heartbeats.

Crackle through the headset: "you guys there?"

"Yeah, what?"

"They have guards positioned on every floor, you'll get nowhere if you keep going this way."

"Then what do we do?"

"Take the elevator – it's safe."

"Roger. Uh, Asuka. . ."

"Yes?"

"I thought you said these guys were highly trained. They just killed a man and they're fucking paralysed with fear."

"Sorry, but you must go on."

"Gotcha. We'll make the stop at floor ten, right?"

"Right."

I turned to the men, covered in droplets of drying blood. "You guys hear that?" A succession of nods followed, and I led to the elevator – along the corridor until about the middle. I stared at the cold metal doors, blood seeping through the crack, a couple of fingers still jammed. I reloaded a clip – safe, verging on paranoid.

I punched the button, waited, shaking a bit, staying focused.

A bell sounded, the door opened, revealing a bright orange cubical with a full size blood speckled mirror. We crammed in uneasily, the last one pushed the button for "ten" and the elevator rumbled upwards. The movement slowed, stopped. Four "men" hid behind me as the doors opened. A leg disappeared from view – a guard on patrol. The bell sounded, followed by a gruff "what?", and a burst of gunfire. Another body hit the floor in a heap.

We stepped out slowly, peering round the door frame for passing guards. The corridor was clean.

"Asuka," I whispered. "Are there any guards on this floor?"

"Some guards are occupying the laboratory and filing area, as well as other rooms that you don't need to go into."

"Okay." I said firmly. "Rin, go left, Ryu, right, stand next to the stairs and shoot the fuck out of anything that comes up. Kay?"

More nods. They ran in opposite directions, stopping at the doors.

Myself and the two remaining soldiers stalked the corridors, checking doors marked with various numbers. We approached a door covered in brightly coloured warning labels, chemical hazard notices, "keep out" signs. We ignored every one of them, and pushed the door open quietly.

Blue suited guards turned to face us with a succession of clicks, four or so guns pointed in our direction.

I glanced around the room – think fast – table by the door strewn with chemicals. Thought fast – grabbed a beaker, flipped the table, hit the deck, chemicals bubbling, fizzing. A disgruntled guard stamped over, I tossed the flask, screams, sizzling eyeballs and flesh. More running – idiots who don't think. I kicked a Japanese soldier, he sprang up shooting, cutting down the guards as they sprinted. Too easy – look around for evidence.

Coloured liquids bubbled, tubes littered desks, curiously marked jars begging to be opened. No powder. No SPANK. Fuck it, try the filing room.

The door read "bureau" with "private" stickers and empty threats about unauthorized access. I peered through the keyhole, seeing rows of filing cabinets stacked like bookcases, guards patrolling the aisles. I raised myself up to the square window, and saw four rows of filing cabinets, and two guards, one between the first two sets, the other between the last two.

I turned to the guys to explain my plan: "Okay, I can take out the first guy from here. But the second, he's up to you. I'll break down the door and run in, take some pot shots to alert the guard, then try and hide from him in the aisles. If he walks in your range, kill him. Got it?"

More scared nods.

I raised myself to the window again, watched the guard walk up and down idly, ducking every time he faced the door. When he started to walk away, I shielded my eyes and broke through the glass with the butt of the gun, spinning it in my grip so the barrel pointed forward. The man turned sharply, catching the first shot in the face, the next two merely to make sure he stayed down.

I ducked back down from the window, kicked at the door with my right leg and threw myself behind a shelf as the words, "hey, what the fuck!" filled the air.

I kept an ear to the floor, listening for footsteps. Repeated thuds came from left, I rolled right, saw a foot under the shelf. I shot, he jumped, started hopping. I vaulted to my feet, spun around the cabinets as the man stumbled round the corner. I peered through the space in the shelves, he was just hobbling into plain view of the men at the door.

"Fucking shoot him now!" I screamed, barging into the cabinet behind me, tipping it over, into the others, causing a domino effect. The guard yelped, the seven foot cabinet, crushed him into the floor. Two Japanese men waltzed by, shooting rounds into his skull.

"Good job." I said.

The radio crackled: "Check the files. Find anything, anything on this drug scam, or anything. . .incriminating."

"Roger."

Ten minutes in, fuck all to show for it. Losing hope, then shouts outside. Foreign yelling – Rin, Ryu – toss the paperwork, dive into the hallway guns ablaze.

An infinite corridor. At one end lay a corpse, at the other Ryu hid behind an overturned trash can. Guards stormed the hallway from Rin's staircase – about a dozen of them with heavy weapons.

Ryu flipped onto his stomach shooting, guards miles away evaded the shots. I slid behind the trash can with him, firing from my last clip – futile, but it stopped them running down this way.

Bullets whizzed by – blink and you're dead.

Heavier shots now – guards with 10 gauge pumps. Shells soared through the air, a grinding noise rose from my side – the two soldiers tipped a filing cabinet with a crash in front of us, blocking enemy fire.

We sat with our backs to the shooting, Ryu was shaking.

"Oh, fuck this!" I yelled, prying a shotgun from the cold fingers of a filing room guard. "I'm going alone. Stay here and for god sake cover me!"

I ripped the headset from my face and tossed it at the still trembling Ryu, and ran, hunched over, past the fallen shelf, to the elevator, shotguns blasting from my front, crappy silencers blasting from behind, deafening as they zipped past me and plunged into friend and foe. I jumped sideways into the still open elevator door, slamming my hand against the button on the way down, the door closing amidst sparks. I jabbed "thirteen" - the top floor, Donald Love's office – still catching my breath.

Low rumbling, droning, a tiny little window showing moving darkness. The movement slowed. . .

_Ting._

Straight diving out the elevator door, scraping along the lush carpet on my side, pulling the trigger over and over. Sparks, shells, blood flew all round, three men tumbling to the purple shag clutching bloody wounds. The screams, low key yells echoed off the walls, a succession of muffled thuds as a roomful of corpses hit the ground seeping blood. Frantic gasping for air and heavy panicky breathing – my own.

Search the room – full size window as one of the four walls, a table propped in a wall-wall corner adorning a briefcase and small firearm. A shaking, huddled man, arms over head, rocking gently, tears streaming down his face, sat in the other. I approached with caution, testing my inside pocket for heat. Nothing. Sidesteps to the table – keep watching the nervous Donald Love. I stuck out a careful hand and slid the gun across the table, wrapped my fingers slowly around it – a magnum, six bullets, full clip – carried it over to the now motionless figure.

I raised the gun, aimed, shot into the wall above his head – startled him, he leapt into the corner. I towered over him with a sly grin, made hand motions – point at the gun, hold up six fingers, retract one – six minus one. He backed further into the corner, pressing against the walls until his knuckles turned white.

_Ting._ Shoot the elevator – automatic reflex – another man down.

Make that four.

Attention back on Love crawling towards the phone. Lucky shot, the phone exploded into a million plastic shards. Easy shot, in the hand – keep him where he is.

Flash another sly grin in his direction, hand gesture - "two", "watch this".

I spun the chamber – Russian Roulette style, two in six chance of death - I thrust the gun into his mouth and gently squeezed the trigger.

_Click. _

_Lucky. _

He quivered, pleaded, begged.

_Ting. _

I pivoted, _click, click, click – _all duds. Lucky – Asuka strolled out of the doorway, waving optimistically.

Donald's eyes widened to the point where they almost popped out his head. The colour drained from him.

"Nice to see you again Donald." She turned to me. "Let him go."

I thrust a foot into his back and pushed him towards Asuka. He tried to regain his balance but stumbled and fell to his knees in front of her, allowing her to place a knee high boot on his shoulder and further force him to the ground.

She snapped her fingers loudly, and Ryu walked obediently out of the elevator to tie Love's hands behind his back.

"Where are the others?" I asked.

"History." she replied.

"So what do we do now?"

Asuka ignored the question and spoke incomprehensible code into her cell phone.

"Now we wait."

We sat in the uncomfortable silence, disrupted only by the screaming Donald Love, still clutching his bloody hand as the liquid ran down his arm, staining the end of his shirt a dull maroon.

"Take him to the roof." said Asuka, before loudly walking to the elevator.

Ryu took Donald by his good hand and violently dragged him to the door in non-rhythmic jolts. He forced him through the frame with a forceful kick, and we went up, until the scrolling blackness from the window became broad daylight.

The door slid away to reveal a beautifully well kept garden, luscious greens and brilliantly colourful flowers in blues and reds and lilacs surrounded the courtyard.

"So, what do you intend to do with him?" I asked Asuka as we strolled through the garden.

She sighed, "we intend to interrogate him in surroundings more familiar to us, with high quality interrogation specialists. We think. . ."

A few feet away, Ryu tossed Love onto his front and joined the conversation.

"He would not talk. I put a handkerchief over his mouth so he doesn't scream."

"He shouldn't scream." said Asuka.

"He just got his hand shot!" I yelled.

"Pft. Baby." muttered Asuka. "I will deal with him." She turned on the spot and started a perky walk. "Oh, Donald!" She stopped dead. "Fuck! Where the hell is he?"

"There!" I yelled, spying Donald, bent over backwards due to the cuffs, rocking himself closer to the edge of the building.

"Fucking catch him!" yelled Asuka, jumping up and down frantically on the spot.

I lunged forward, landed on my left foot, and threw myself to the ground, inches away from the edge, where I extended my arm, hooking it around the cuffs as Donald took a plunge.

The weight pulled me, dragged me closer to the drop, I yelled in terror, and I knew Donald was yelling, his screams muffled by the bright red handkerchief covering his face. My legs ploughed through the grass, I tried to grab on with my free hand and found myself pulling lumps of dirt and flowers from their roots. And we kept sliding.

I couldn't feel anything supporting my legs, I started to tip, panicked, one of my flailing legs caught in a drainpipe, swinging me face first into glass. But we had stopped falling. We hung there – it felt like my arm would come out my socket, but I hung there, Donald's cuff's around my hand, both of us swaying in the breeze.

One look down was all it took – I saw the millions of brightly coloured specks and black dots that made up the bustling Staunton Island High Street – and I was paralysed. Below me was a thirteen storey drop, and I was already on the verge of plummeting.

"Fucking help!" I shouted, drowning Donald's muffled pleas.

"Hang on!" yelled a female voice, although I could barely hear it, the blood rushing to my head was affected my hearing.

Just then a low pitched whirring , each one throwing a blast of wind towards us, became audible, and increased in volume.

I decided to open my eyes – a chopper was hovering below us.

I could just about make out Asuka saying "You're saved!"

"How am I fucking saved? Because I get to be chopped to pieces if I fall?"

A hazy reply said something about a window cleaner platform. I should jump to it, just below us, and take it down to the chopper.

"Fucking kidding!"

I sucked up some courage, started swinging myself from side to side, gaining momentum. If I could just reach out a little further I could grab the ropes, and shimmy down to the platform.

I kept swinging, reaching, swinging –

I dropped the cuffs.

It all just slowed down, I was stiff with shock, as this limp body fell, hand still bound together, from my still reaching hand, down, down to the cyclone of the propeller blades with an agonising, blood curdling scream. Gallons of blood shot back up, bits of flesh and bone, shards of metal from the cuffs – it splattered all over my clothes, my chalk white face, the windows, everything.

Then slowly, carried only by the wind, the bright red handkerchief floated away.

"Oh. . .holy shit. . ." I whispered, still lost for words.

I heard footsteps coming from above, Asuka and Ryu popped their heads over the side of the building.

"I. . .I fucking dropped him. . ."

"Agh!" yelled Asuka, "Now how will we find out what he wanted the drugs for!"

"I. . .I saw a briefcase on the table in his lounge. . . maybe it's there." I whispered, taken aback by Asuka's lack of emotion concerning Donald Love's mutilation.

"I'll go see. You get to the helicopter."

I took the platform down adjacent to the chopper, and climbed aboard, and we ascended up the side of the building to pick up the survivors with the briefcase. The chopper blades flicked blood with each spin.

The journey away from the place was in total silence. I was still speechless after what I had witnessed and caused, Asuka was busying herself with the files she had stolen, and Ryu hadn't said much all day and didn't appear to want to start now.

The pilot lowered, and dropped me off near my condo.

Asuka muttered her thanks and they took off just like that.

I was glad to get in. My clothes stank of blood and sweat, and I really had to lie down, and drink to forget what I had seen, even if only for the night. . .

**A\N: That'll be probably my last update til around Christmas. Sorry, but exams really suck.**


	6. The Chase

The incessant ringing woke me. My eyes shot open, scanning the ceiling. I squirmed lazily on the bed, my legs tangled and glued to the sheets with sweat. My clothes hung on the bottom bed post, a small pool of blood had formed underneath. Seeing it reminded me of yesterday, of the blood, the screams, the horror. . .

The phone rang again, almost more persistently. I threw myself to the bedside table, smashing a fist into the creamy white coloured phone, forcing the receiver to spring up into my grip.

"What?" I grunted, swallowing phlegm.

"Kid, it's Ray."

"You woke me up."

"Oh, sorry your majesty. I forgot princess likes to sleep 'til nine at night on Mondays. Where are my fucking manners?" he replied, angrily. I could almost feel the spittle through the phone.

"What do you want, Ray? Wait, how the fuck did you get this number?"

" "How the fuck did you get this number?" " he mimicked, in a whiny voice. "Kid, you know who I am. You know what contacts I have. You know that I can get my hands on any information I desire. _And you know that I don't like shitbirds like you thinking they're better than me! So get to the fucking docks, now! _I'll meet you there in half an hour. Come alone, it's important."

The phone went dead. I dropped back down onto the pillow, tossed the receiver at a wall.

I never get a fucking day off.

I climbed out of bed, shaking my legs free from the bedlinen. I shuffled through to the bathroom, supporting myself on the sink. I gazed deep into the mirror, saw a sorry excuse of a man looking back. I spent most of the night replaying all the torment, all the horrible things I'd seen and done. I remembered how my family and I had been set for life and how it was all taken away from me in the blink of a power-mad old bastard's eye. I remembered finding my daughter screaming for her daddy as the house filled with blaze and I could do nothing but scream back. All the times I'd come close to death working for other people. The most haunting image of all was witnessing, in super slow motion, as I dropped Donald Love into the blades of the waiting chopper, and how Asuka and her gang could still only think about work. I gazed into the mirror again, and looked instantly worse.

I splashed cold water onto my face, brushed hair out of my eyes and returned to the sitting room, carpeted with noodle cartons and pizza boxes. I paced towards the bed, picked up a shirt, crispy with dried blood, and looked at it in disgust. I took the pile of clothes and threw them out the window. I checked the closet, and found a gleaming white, brand new shirt and blue jeans hanging in the otherwise bare wardrobe. I threw them on – perfect fit – and stepped into soggy shoes, then made for the door, drawing a .45 from the jeans pocket.

I grinned, and muttered, "Asuka. . ."

I climbed into the Stinger, my other car still tucked away at the casino. Portland docks was quite a drive away, the smell of fresh rain was sickening. I drove slowly, kept to the speed limit, more for my safety than anyone else's. It took me about twenty-five minutes, and when I pulled into the large open docks, I could see Ray was already there, down near the crane.

A storm had picked up since then, the low rumble of thunder added to the intensity of the mood as I stepped out of my car, and walked over to greet him, standing with his hands behind his back.

"Ray. . .", I said, unsteadily, as lightning crackled over in Staunton.

Ray nodded, his eyes darted to his left, the wall, and back again, unsure.

I caught movement where he was looking. I knew what was happening.

I threw myself behind some metal barrels as the first shots were fired.

Thunder exploded overhead, the rain stung my eyes. I drew the gun and fired back, hitting air.

"You bastard, Ray, you fucking set me up!"

"I told ya, kid," he said calmly, "It's a dog eat dog world, and I only work to get paid!"

The figure stepped out from the shadows.

It was _him_.

_The one who killed my family and framed me for murder. _

"I'll fucking kill you, both of you!"

I leapt out firing, blinded by rage. I didn't give a fuck any more, I just kept firing at the figures, shadowed by the darkness, until I heard Ray scream, "Oh, fuck! My leg! Dammit, get me the fuck outta here, kid!"

My nemesis ran with Ray off behind the wall, leaving me sodden with rain and nervous sweat and gasping for breath.

Headlights lit up the docks, a car screamed past, spraying fallen rain into my eyes.

Without thinking, I decided to give chase.

I ran back to my car and keyed it, and took off after them, the blinding headlights the only clue as to where they had gone.

The windshield wipers did little more than spread the rainwater across the window, making driving all the more dangerous. Every so often a flash would light up the sky – the only light to be seen, apparently the storm had caused a citywide power outage.

I gunned it, closing the gap between the cars as they turned out of the docks and over the Callahan Bridge. The bridge structure shone brightly against the fire in the sky, casting disturbing shadows on the road.

I started ramming the back of the Patriot, but its massive bulk was too sturdy to move. Car horns rang out into the night, angry citizens of Liberty City always in a rush.

I cleared the blur from the window again. Suddenly the roof of the Patriot came loose, revealing Ray holding an AK. He laughed triumphantly over the howling wind and rain, and let rip.

My windshield exploded into a million fragments, falling like the never ending rain. I yanked on the wheel, forcing the car to the left, into the inside lane, almost losing control on the flooded streets.

I had the speed advantage. I pulled up next to the Patriot, out of range of Ray's shooting. The freezing rain continued to sting my face and eyes, while my hair, weighted with rain, flopped across my vision. I had to screw my face up to see the street ahead.

We kept driving along the bridge. Rain turned to hail, like powerful little bullets bouncing off the car with deafening loudness.

"Oh, fuck!" I yelled. Little orange lights flashed off and on up ahead, indicating a crash. Something the shape of a Sentinel and something with the mass of a van blockaded half the road. I yelled again, and thrust my steering to the right, grinding into the Patriot in a vain attempt to force it over. Sparks singed my flesh, we got closer to the wreck up ahead.

The Patriot was immovable, I took a new split second decision and turned the other way, launching off the sloped divider between the sides of the bridge.

My Stinger took to the skies, rotating from the sketchy take off. With the driver's side now facing the road, I watched out the window I had been thrown against, regretting not wearing a seatbelt. Looking through the driver's side window, I noticed I was a surprising height over the ground, and had jumped over several cars speeding in the opposite direction.

Slowly, after what came to be a heart-stopping eternity, the car touched back down, scraping along the left side of the bridge, my door crumpling as it fought with the ground under it, my ribs bruising and flesh tearing.

I threw myself to the floor of the car with enough force to tip it onto four wheels again, but the Patriot was nowhere to be seen.

"Shit. . .", I muttered, stomping on the throttle again, sending a sudden surge of life through the vehicle.

Topping seventy miles an hour, weaving around angry drivers passing me in the other direction, I came to the conclusion that there would be one place Ray would be likely to go – the airport.

Without hesitation, I pressed on through the busy intersection that welcomed travellers to Staunton, and made a sharp right by the shore; the Shoreside Lift Bridge nearby, a noticeable trail of destruction to keep me on track.

Driving closer, I could see the Patriot on the bridge support above the water, the chiming bells my gift – the perfect opportunity to gain some ground on my betrayer. I gunned it through red lights, taking the pavement to avoid the traffic. The car jerked, a bluesuit rolled across the bonnet, slamming into the back seat. He quickly drew his gun and caught the butt of it smashing into his face. His grip released, awarding me with a new service issue 9mm and a possible dead cop in my back seat.

I made my way onto the coiling bridge.

Chimes sang a hopeful song.

Cars turned off in all directions, trying to avoid the crazy man with the corpse in his car. The cars parted like the Red Sea – all but one. I could hear Ray yelling from half the bridge's length away. I hit the gas. Ray hit the window. Chimes faded, engines roared, both our cars tore up the road, but the sleek little sports car had the upper hand.

The bridge started downhill, I crept to about the width of two cars from the Patriot, saw arms flailing from the inside, Ray hitting the deck, arms over head. I looked ahead. Black Kurumas – FBI cars – lined the turn-off from the bridge, a few of them stood by their doors, fully armed with intent to kill the guy with the dead officer in his back seat. That is, until Ray and his henchman forced their way through, spraying paint chips and sparks all over the place.

I made for the gap as a half dozen sirens started to cry.

A whole new chase was on now.

The Patriot didn't look intent on stopping, it ploughed on, leaping over a mound of grass, crashing down in front of the airport.

Like an idiot I followed, launched my dinky little Banshee off the mini-cliff – bailed out before the whole thing went up in flames. Flaming paintwork rained down on the public. A woman screamed.

I rolled on the landing, got up as Ray ran for the doors. I lined up a shot – too risky. Let him go.

Something clicked. I didn't have to look. I knew it would be _him_. He was there to finish the job. I had one of those feelings, like when they say you're life flashes before your eyes.

It hurt.

I closed my eyes, tensed – the more I did it, the worse the memories came flooding back. I started to remember it was all because of _him_. It seemed ironic for him to be the end of the troubles. It wasn't the first time I thought about giving up, as the cold metal caressed the back of my neck.

I swallowed the saliva that was building in my mouth, and heard a voice.

_Drop your weapons and get on the ground!_

_He_ turned round. I opened my eyes. I remembered life. I didn't remember much else, except that I was running.

I vaulted the candy-cane pole at the airport entrance, took a swift glance back ways to see _him_ shoot it full of holes.

He wasn't too far behind – I hoped it was far enough to hinder his accuracy – and about the same distance behind him came the onslaught of special agents, and the chopper, forcing the strewn litter into a tornado. Each gyration of the blades was a heartbeat, a footstep, a gunshot. Voices called out, becoming less and less distinctive. Sirens wailed a distant tune. The screech of tyres, the falling hail, the clockwork crackle of thunder - it was overwhelming, and _he _was unrelenting.

I turned around, and kept running.


	7. Epilogue: The Epitaph

_Liberty News_

Residents in Cedar Grove have been coming to terms with the emotional aftermath of a full-blown war that hit the area this morning. Local resident Clive Denver described to police a single gunman that he saw fleeing the scene with a dark haired woman.

The sound of explosions shook nearby homes as people ran for cover. Several citizens were injured in the panic as gunfire was exchanged between ground forces and a helicopter circling the dam. With the death toll already over twenty, police are still finding bodies. There have been no official denials concerning rumours that the dead were members of the Colombian Cartel, and still no leads as to the cause of the massacre.

In other news, a local citizen of Liberty City, Thomas Anderson, was found dead in Francis International Airport late last night. An FBI spokesman claims Thomas, who once had valuable Organised Crime connections, was resisting arrest and fleeing from an unnamed gunman, when he attempted to climb to the roof of one of the hangars and was shot to death by his pursuer. The mystery killer somehow managed to evade the Federal Bureau of Investigation's most valiant efforts to take him into custody and remains at large.

The FBI refuse to comment on a possible connection between Anderson's killing and the events which took place earlier today. More on this story as it develops, but for now, that's all she wrote.

* * *

_Just another face in the crowd, just another meaningless death to chalk up on Liberty's sprawling blackboard. _

_Gone, and soon to be forgotten._

_They came to Liberty together in happiness._

_They left in torment and anguish. _

_Now, buried together, a memorial not only to their fate, but to the untold, but always thought about, story of Liberty City's ironic monicker, they were at peace._

_

* * *

_

**A/N: That's all folks. I'm off to for a while. See me under the same name for the same gritty fiction you read here. Don't worry, I'll be back. **

**The first half of this report was adapted from GTA 3's ending. **

**Thanks to the reviewers for keeping me supported on this, and thanks to ryando for co-brainstorming the original idea with me, then graciously handing full license over to me. **


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